


Yours, Truly

by mirawonderfulstar



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Epistolary, Fluff, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Letters, M/M, Returning Home, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 09:57:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17057648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirawonderfulstar/pseuds/mirawonderfulstar
Summary: A love in selected letters.





	Yours, Truly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [regencysnuffboxes (malicegeres)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/malicegeres/gifts).



> You know that bit in Hamilton that's like "you've written my dearest, Angelica, with the comma after dearest" 
> 
> Yeah this is inspired by that, I guess *shrugs loudly*
> 
> Shoutout again to Hallie for reccing me the Captain Crowley series.

_25 December 1666_

_Angel,_

_Happy Christmas, I suppose. Is that nutter still trying to ban it or has he been sacked yet? Hardly matters since you won’t get this letter for at least a month, knowing the Italians. Maybe I’ll vanish it over there so you’ll have it for the season. I certainly won’t be coming round this year, you know how I feel about that damp little island you call home._

_Although, England’s relative sogginess doesn’t seem to have stopped it burning, does it? Hope your shop is okay, although not as much as I hope this has persuaded you to come back to the Mediterranean at last. It’s been, what, almost a century now? How long are you going to stay there? You can’t seriously mean to put down roots in London, of all places. Also, I heard the cathedral there has been destroyed, St Paul’s was it? Well. There’s a St Paul’s in Rome. Much more extravagant one, to my mind._

_There’s plenty more interesting things to do here, even without the superior cathedral. Piacquadio’s grandson is running that place by the Pantheon now, I go in there every once in a while. Not as good a cook as his father or his grandmother but his taste in wine is more suited to your preferences. She asks about you sometimes, wants to know if I’ve seen you recently. The kids all assume she’s lost it, I think, mistaking me for the young man she used to see in her restaurant._

_I know what you’re going to say, I can see you giving me that look from across Europe. It’s not the same thing. I haven’t made any attempt at “settling down” it’s just that when you’re bored you find yourself going back to old haunts, you know?_

_Anyway. I’ve got some rooms at a villa on the Bay of Naples, if you’re interested. The address is enclosed, along with information that should get you on a ship here. Close up your shop for a bit and come visit. Your books aren’t going anywhere._

_Yours Truly,_

_Crowley_

 

 

_2 June 1667_

_My Dear Crowley,_

_Thank you again for having me to stay and I am sorry I couldn’t convince you to come back to England with me.  As I said, I simply cannot imagine relocating again; when I bought the shop it was with the explicit intention of having a place to store my books.  The expense and hassle of moving what amounts to a personal library is too great and I’m afraid if you truly do want to see more of me you’ll have to make do with brief visits.  You are, of course, always welcome to stay here should you wish it—there are any number of perfectly satisfactory accommodations in London._

_As to your parting question, no, I don’t think it very likely that the fire was caused by either my side or yours.  What is the idiom you would use?  Human error?  That would seem to be the most likely explanation, from everything I’ve been able to glean investigating the aftermath._

_The restoration of St Paul’s is going about as well as one would expect, which I’m sure should please you, you old serpent.  I’ve orders to stay out of it or it would certainly be going faster. In fact, I have to go to the continent in several weeks’ time; something about a treaty between England, France, and the Netherlands. If I’m honest with you I haven’t been paying attention to the latest news, I had only just made it home last night. I wanted to get this letter off to you as soon as possible in case you wanted to meet me in Breda._

_Hoping this letter finds you well and in a more agreeable mood than you were in at our parting._

_Optimistically,_

_Aziraphale_

 

 

_29 June 1667_

_Angel,_

_Don't take that tone with me. And yes, I'm aware that's usually your line. I was not in a mood at your departure, I was sick of listening to you extol the joys of your rain-drenched little spit of land. The whole place has gotten irredeemably boring since good old Will died. And it's all well and and good you living there. What is there in England for someone on My Side to do, I ask you. Seems to me the buggers have got quite a good handle on things there without me. _

_I should turn down your invitation on principle but Below wants me in Breda for the conference as well. I'll see you in a month._

_Disgruntled,_

_Crowley_

 

 

_25 December 1667_

_My Dear Crowley,_

_Happy Christmas.  I am fully intending to vanish this to you so I can both write it and you receive it on the day.  I would of course prefer to be able to see you in person but we seem to have reached an impasse over the question of what part of the world is ideal for habitation._

_I admit it has been a rather dismal holiday this year.  To answer your question from exactly a year ago, Cromwell is still in power.  You know I despise trying to keep up with human politics in addition to everything else, but religious and philosophical trends are changing here and not, I fear, in a way which bodes well for me and my workload.  Above has yet to take a solid stance on Christmas as either a religious observance or a secular institution, which means I am being expected to perform both potential sides of the issue.  It would, in fact, be extremely useful to me to have somebody here to help._

_Would I be guilty of manipulation if I invoked the Arrangement to persuade you to relocate?_

_I do wish you would, Crowley.  It really is a lovely place, London, even without your beloved Bard here to entertain you.  People still perform his plays and will for some time, if you ask me._

_On a more personal level I've started expanding the flat above the shop.  I've a sitting room and a bedroom up there now, although typically I spend most of my time in the back room's kitchen.  You told me once, probably centuries ago, that you found cooking soothing, and I've finally started working on my own again after millennia._

_...this is not exactly painting a good picture for you of London, is it.  I haven't been out much these last few months apart from work._

_Please do reconsider your stubborn attachment to Italy, my dear.  I love the countryside and coast there, as well, but there is countryside in England.  Sussex is quite lovely, for example._

_Affectionately,_

_Aziraphale_

 

 

_15 February, 1668_

_Angel,_

_The situation in Italy has become untenable and it seems to me if there was ever a time to move to a small damp island in the north, this would be it. I’m sending this ahead to let you know to expect me; I’m not bringing much so you don’t need to go to the trouble of making any kind of arrangements, but I would appreciate it greatly if you would let me stay above your blessed shop until I can get myself situated in your so-called city._

_Apologies for the briefness of this letter._

_Irritatedly,_

_C_

 

 

_10 May, 1668_

_C,_

_You’ve left some articles of clothing in my rooms.  Shall I have them delivered to you in the same manner as this letter, or would you like to come by and pick them up?_

_A_

_P.S. It certainly is novel to be able to pay someone in the street to run you something the same day, rather than waiting for a letter to travel across the ocean or expending the energy and dealing with the paperwork to send it there instantly.  I am glad you’ve come to live in London, my dear._

 

 

_22 October, 1720_

_Angel,_

_Sorry it’s been so long, you know how humans can be when they get their minds on an idea. I’ve only just made port. If I go another millennium without setting foot on a ship again it will be too bloody soon. At least I don’t need to contend with scurvy; three members of the crew died and the captain would certainly have done if I hadn’t intervened. Bloody pirates, eh?_

_I wish I could write more but I’m exhausted and I want to get this in the mail as soon as possible before you have a chance to really work yourself up about it. If I could have written any time sooner in the last five years I would have done. I’ll see you when I get back to London._

_Tiredly,_

_Crowley_

 

 

_1 November 1773_

_Crowley,_

_I must insist you come back to London as soon as possible.  If war truly is to break out between the colonies and Britain it might be some time before you’re able to safely return and I would feel a good deal easier in my mind knowing you are not in the midst of it, purely from a thwarting aspect, you understand._

_Although, I suppose, the evidence would seem to suggest that you temporary assignment to the colonies has less to do with orders and more to do with the fact that you are incapable of staying in one place for any length of time.  I offered to go in your stead after your experiences with Teach several decades ago and you turned down the offer; I can only assume you do indeed derive some enjoyment from being in the thick of trouble.  I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.  What did you tell me your instructions were, all those years ago?  “Get up there and make some trouble”?  You certainly seem to give no end of trouble to me._

_For goodness’ sake, come home, you impossible thing._

_Aziraphale_

 

 

_29 April 1900_

_A,_

_Come pick me up and take me out, I’m far too likely to just go right back to sleep without stimulation. I’ll expect you around two o’clock._

_C_

 

 

_30 December 1940_

_My Dear Crowley,_

_London was bombed again last night.  The fires are out, St Paul’s survives, and I want nothing more than to lock myself in the shop until this is all over but I don’t doubt the world looks even blacker there, wherever you are now.  I hope you received my last package._

_Perhaps it's pointless to worry, but I do._

_Aziraphale_

 

 

_3 January 1941_

_Aziraphale,_

_It must have taken a minor miracle to get that last letter to me, or maybe I just wanted it so badly it appeared when I needed it._

_I’m exhausted and cold and I’ll spare you the rest._

_I miss you, too._

_Yours, Truly_

_Crowley_

 

 

_12 July 1992_

_Crowley,_

_I know you’ve been gone little more than a month, and I know there are certainly faster ways to contact you, but I was going through some files the other day and I found a collection of letters you’ve sent me over the years.  Reading back over them without my half of the correspondence has been, well, odd, and I have to wonder if you saved any of the letters I sent you, whether there is a complete record of some conversation spread between our two residences._

_Whatever you’re doing in Denmark, I hope it’s going well.  I’ve dealt with the situation in Bristol for you.  Perhaps you could be persuaded to perform a slight miracle in Amsterdam on your way back through.  The details are enclosed.  It isn’t time sensitive, but nonetheless, I’d very much like to know when you’re coming home._

_With all my heart,_

_Aziraphale_

 

 

17 July 1992

Crowley called Aziraphale the second he returned to Mayfair. Then he went into his office and got out a box he kept behind a stack of books about self-actualization that he'd bought as a joke. He considered putting the letter that was currently in the breast pocket of his jacket into the box with the others, decided against it, and took the box down to the Bentley. 

He strode into the bookshop and set the box down on the counter by the till, not even waiting for Aziraphale, who stuck his head around the corner of the doorway to the back room with some surprise. 

“What’s this?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley gestured for him to open it, and as soon as he did, he gasped. Crowley couldn't stop himself from grinning.

In the box were pages and pages of letters on fading and browning paper, covered with ink and pencil and Aziraphale’s preferred red sealing wax. “You _did_ keep them.” He murmured, pulling out a letter at random and scanning down it.

“Of course. I thought from the tone of your last that you might want them, so here they are.” He shifted from one foot to the other, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “They’re all in there.”

“All of them?” Aziraphale said, incredulous and delighted as he pulled out another.

“Well.” Crowley swallowed, suddenly rather embarrassed. “All but one.”

There was the rustle of fabric on fabric as Crowley pulled out the letter Aziraphale had sent him earlier in the week from the pocket of his jacket, with the valediction "with all my heart" at the end. Crowley's own heart fluttered for a moment thinking about it.

Aziraphale watched him take out the letter and lay it down on the counter with an unreadable expression. Then, slowly, almost guiltily, he pulled one of Crowley's own letters from his pocket and smoothed it down for Crowley to see. It was at least fifty years old and very short, and Crowley's brows scrunched together in confusion until he read it. "Yours, Truly". 

"Oh." He said, somewhat stupidly, as what must have happened unspooled in his head like a tape played too fast. Aziraphale, going through his own box of letters, stumbling across this one in particular. His breath catching over those last words, that misplaced comma, written in a hurry as Crowley crouched in the dark somewhere, waiting out the end of a war that wasn't The War but which had become the only war Crowley could focus on or care about. A letter sent off to Crowley, calling him home like he'd always done, only this time because he wanted to know... 

"I am." He said, still looking down at the old piece of paper on the table, covered in his shaky scrawl from years ago."If… if you want. If you want me.”

Aziraphale pulled him into his arms, brushing a kiss against his temple. Crowley let out a shivery sigh and closed his eyes, and he felt Aziraphale kiss his eyelids, his forehead, the tip of his nose. "I do." He breathed at last, warm on Crowley's cheek. "Oh, my dear, do I want." 

He let the angel back him against the counter, bumping up against the box of years and years worth of correspondence, his hands fisting in the lapels of Aziraphale’s jacket as Aziraphale insinuated himself between Crowley's legs.

 _Home_ , Crowley was thinking as Aziraphale’s mouth slid against his. He'd come home for Aziraphale. To be with him. Since he’d moved to London and put up that ridiculous sign over the door, _A.Z. Fell & Co.,_ as though they could have ever pretended it was anything else than the two of them together. Back from the colonies and pirates and the war and The War, back home to Aziraphale. At the end of everything, the two of them reaching out for each other. 

 _With all my heart_ , he'd written, and although Crowley knew Aziraphale well enough to know that their letters were frequently layers of lying to themselves, that, at least, was clear. Yours, with all my heart. 


End file.
